Forbidden Fruit
by The-Darkness-In-The-Bright
Summary: Mad Love spoilers - Harleen Quinzell became Harley Quinn because of her love for her patient...but it wasn't all her fault. This tells the tale of an ambitious doctor and a psychotic, manipulative criminal and their power struggle for one thing - her mind


Disclaimers: I do NOT own anyone here except Sahira, Sven and any other doctors you might not recognize - everyone else belongs to DC.

Dr. Harleen Quinzell parked her sensible dark blue Mustang outside Arkham Asylum before turning off the engine and taking a deep, calming breath. She looked at her reflection in the rear-view mirror. Her once dishwater-blonde hair had been highlighted enough times to make it a pretty silver-blonde and pulled back in a bun. Her slightly too-large round glasses were only used for reading, but she wore them normally as a habit. She wore a light-lavender oxford shirt with a thin silk black tie, a stylish, yet professional black skirt, black leather shoes with sensible heels, and the trademark white lab coat of doctors. She quickly checked her sparkling white teeth for anything that might've been stuck, re-touched her make-up, popped a mint into her mouth, and then got out of her car. She slipped her keys into her brown briefcase and, locking the car door, she strode calmly into her new workplace.

"Name?" the guard asked her gruffly.

"Dr Harleen Quinzell. I'm the new intern here," she smiled politely at him. "I'm supposed to pick up a name tag here, I think,"

"Lemme see…yeah, here you are, Dr Quinzell. Just sign here, and I'll give you your badge," the guard handed a sign-in sheet to her with a pen and she scrawled her signature. Then, he handed her a clip-on badge with her picture and name printed on it. She attached it to her breast pocket and made her way inside. A pretty doctor with short dark hair held back by a white headband and intelligent brown eyes was there to meet her. Harleen admired the way her tan went well with her features.

"Harleen Quinzell?" the woman smiled genially and held out a hand. "I'm Joan Leland," Harleen realized that this woman would be her mentor at Arkham for the next 3 months. Smiling, she shook Joan's hand.

"Hi, Joan. Call me Harley. Everyone does," she offered. Joan nodded and led her down what the psychiatrists called the Rogue Gallery. Arkham was for the true mentally ill patients, but the Rogue Gallery held their worst psychotic patients – the criminals that were often shown up on the news.

"I must admit. I was surprised you wanted to intern here at Arkham," Joan remarked, looking askance at Harleen. Harleen knew Joan was really asking "Why did you leave a safe internship in Bludhaven for such a dangerous position here in Gotham City?"

"Well, I've always held an attraction for extreme personalities," Harleen explained. "They're more exciting, more challenging," Harleen remembered watching a video about how criminal psychiatrists worked and was immediately hooked. She had been only 11 at the time, but then and there, she had known that she wanted to be a criminal psychiatrist. She had promise to be a gymnast, something that her parents had encouraged more than working with dangerous, mentally insane criminals. She had even been Olympic material. In the end, she had attended Gotham University, having been accepted on her excellent grades (straight A's) and her gymnastics techniques (which had gotten her a full scholarship at GU). She continued her gymnastics in GU, but had stopped since she began her doctorate. She had been able to graduate early, with highest honors and first in her class.

"And more high profile?" Joan asked shrewdly, pulling Harleen out of her reverie. "You can't deny that there's an element of glamour to these super criminals," Harleen grinned slightly. It was true that Arkham had attracted her because it housed so many criminally insane. But it was not awe or any kind of deluded hero-worship that had attracted her. It had been the idea of being able to make progress with some of these people. If she could somehow get an idea as to how one of them ticked, it would be easier to treat them and help them lead a less maladaptive lifestyle.

"I'll warn you right now," Joan began sternly. "These are hard-core psychotics. If you're thinking of cashing in on them by, say, writing a tell-all book, think again," Harleen was about to answer, but the sound of a haunting melody had her turning her head. She followed the whistling to one of the cells near the end of the corridor and checked the nameplate. Her heart stopped as her cerulean eyes ran over the branded letters and then flicked to the man leaning against the cell's wall with his arms folded, whistling. He was, apparently, oblivious to anything as he whistled the slightly cheerful tune, his shockingly purple eyes flicking around the cell. She was stunned by how…normal he was acting!

Harleen looked the man up and down. She had seen him in the papers and in the news, of course, which citizen of Gotham hadn't heard his name? It was as much of a household name as Albert Einstein or Sherlock Holmes. Dark green hair slicked back so that not one strand fell onto his paper-white face. His mouth looked painted, as if he had been playing with his mother's lipstick, as red as the blood he had shed. His scarlet lips and his amethyst eyes were the most arresting aspects of his already arresting persona. He was tall, about 6 feet, which put him several inches above Harleen, and leanly muscled. He looked different in the white Arkham uniform compared to his normal purple and green suit, even though the doctors had allowed him to keep his black and white spats. His was the most complicated mind of all, she realized. Many psychiatrists had tried, and failed to diagnose this man, but to no avail. From what she remembered, the first one who tried was brutally murdered by this particular patient. They knew he was intelligent; there was no denying it. His crimes bespoke a mind that was remarkably sharp, and though he was a psychopathic clown who had no qualms about killing innocent people, she often found some of his jokes amusing. She often berated herself after giggling quietly, but he was very witty, despite his insanity. To her mind, it was a huge shame that he used his large IQ (almost 200!) to hurt and terrorize other people and turn it all into a _joke_.

As if he could hear her thoughts, the Joker's eyes flicked to the sliding glass door of his cell and met Harleen's observing cerulean gaze. His whistle died away as he realized she had been standing there. She blushed delicately as she felt him size her up before looking into her eyes once more and giving her a cheeky wink with a pearly, impish smile. Her eyes widened and she felt the blush intensify. He had rather aristocratic looks, she realized, if one decided to forgo the green hair and ruby lips. His face was long and angular, with deep-set eyes that seemed to observe everything and an aquiline nose. And his smile, however much the citizens of Gotham feared it, seemed to suit him. He almost looked…handsome. Wait, what? Harleen vaguely heard Joan continuing "They'd eat a novice like you for breakfast," Blushing and smiling nervously, she turned away from the Joker's cell and followed Joan towards the psychiatrists' staff room. She didn't know if it was her imagination, but she felt his eyes on her back as she walked further and further away from him, trying to banish inappropriate thoughts from her mind.

***

She arrived at her office about 2 hours later. She had spent a lovely brunch in the staff room being introduced to her colleagues and making friends with them. Some of them were warm and friendly, like Jeremiah Arkham, the son of the man who built the asylum, Joan, Sahira Dharmender and Sven Chekov. Others, like that stuck up Owen Edwards, the sneering Sebastian McAllister and the sweetly vindictive Helen Montgomery…not so much. In fact, not at all. The three of them had looked her up and down and had reacted in different ways, but the intent was the same. Edwards had turned away towards the brunch table without a word, Sebastian had sneered at her and told her softly that he was betting on her hysterical departure within a fortnight and Montgomery had cooed in that irritatingly girlish voice that she hoped Harleen was up to the challenge. She sighed, knowing that not everyone would like her on sight. She _was_ the youngest psychiatrist to turn up at Arkham, including Dr Dharmender, who insisted on being called Hira, and who had joined the staff after finishing her internship and getting married two years ago, at age 29, when Harleen had been 25 and halfway finished with her last year of study. Harleen unlocked the door to her office and opened the door. She put her briefcase down and turned to pull the key out when she caught sight of something red. Looking up, she saw that a single red rosebud had been set in a thin white vase on her desk with a note attached to it. Curious, she shut the door and walked over to the rose. She lifted the note and read the inscription.

_Come down and see me sometime. – J_

Her brows furrowed. There were only 3 people that she knew that had the first initial of J. It definitely was not Joan or Jeremiah, as their offices were on the same floor as hers. Therefore, only one person could have put it in her office. It thrilled and scared her as she made the connection. It flattered her that she was worthy of his time and energy, but it scared her that he was able to get into a locked office and escape from his heavily warded cell. Of course, considering his intelligence, she supposed that not much was beyond his ability. She removed her glasses and lifted the rose from its vase. Holding the blossom to her nose, she inhaled the sweet fragrance and, despite herself, smiled. Then, she realized what she was thinking and shoved her glasses back on. She straightened her lab coat and began to take her things out of the case. She rearranged the office she knew had once belonged to Dr Jonathan Crane, her ex-professor, now a patient here at Arkham as the Scarecrow. She had liked him enough, and he had been fond of her, calling her the daughter he had never had. After about three years of teaching her, he left and was made the head psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum before becoming a patient there himself three years after that. She hoped to do a session with him to catch up. Perhaps he might open up to a former student he was fond of. She finally finished filing her papers and slid the briefcase under her desk. She lifted the vase with the rose in it and placed it on the corner of her desk. Then, grabbing the note that was still attached to the rose, she tore it off and made her way down to the Rogue Gallery. She strode confidentially down the corridor, ignoring the stares and catcalls she was getting from some of the inmates. Finally, she reached the cell she wanted and stopped in front of the glass. The Joker was lying down on his bed, his hands clasped under his head and his feet crossed at the ankles. He was smiling expectantly and his eyes had lit up upon seeing her. He had been waiting for her. The thought sent a shiver up her spine, but whether it was flattered or terrified, she didn't know. She reminded herself that he was behind glass and that he _had_ asked her to come and see him. There had to have been a purpose - if he had wanted her dead, he could have left something in her office to do the job for him, or waited for her there. She held up the note in one hand and rested the other hand on her hip, looking at him sternly with one quizzical brow raised.

"Care to tell me how this got in my office?" she asked, her voice unwavering and confident. She congratulated herself.

"I put it there," the Joker said calmly, his eyes boring into hers as he smiled nonchalantly. She folded her arms, still holding the note.

"I think the guards would be interested to know you've been out of your cell," at this, the Joker's eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement at a joke she did not appear to be privy to.

"If you really were going to tell, you already would have," he drawled smugly. She bit her lip, realizing he was right. She noticed that his accent was rather mixed between British and American. She guessed that he must have lived in England as a child and then moved to America and lived in Gotham for a number of years to soften his accent.

"Y'know, sweets," he began, before leaping up with a cat-like grace and kneeling on the end of the bed, facing her. At this quick action, she had inadvertently stepped back, forgetting for a moment that a thick pane of glass was protecting her. He continued as if she hadn't done anything. "I like what I've heard about you, especially the name. Harleen Quinzell," she looked away with an inaudible sigh. The same joke had been made with her name a few times before, the first person being Professor Crane. Joker stroked his chin and grinned before telling her, "Rework it a bit, and you get Harley Quinn!" he seemed to find it incredibly amusing, but didn't laugh. Neither did she, but she did smile politely.

"Like the clown character, _harlequin_. I know, I've heard it before," she slipped the note into the inner pocket of her lab coat.

"It's the name that puts a smile on my face," he pressed his hands against the glass and smiled charmingly at her. She shook her head with an amused smile and turned to leave. As she began to walk, she heard his voice floating after her. "It makes me feel that there's someone here I can relate to. Someone who might like to hear my secrets," That made her stop dead in her tracks. _His_ secrets? Her? The youngest employee ever to walk into Arkham Asylum? No one would believe it! She could actually make progress with him if he opened up to her! Joan, Hira, Sven and Jeremiah would be so proud! Edwards, Montgomery and McAllister would be so _jealous_! She smirked at that thought gleefully. Little did she know that the Joker's smile had shifted from genial to impish malice.

_Bingo_, both minds unknowingly thought in triumphant unison.

_Snape: __***raises brow***__ Shouldn't you be working?_

_Me: I _can_ have a break, FYI._

_Erik: __***folds arms***__ Do you not have a Psychology exam tomorrow that you will have to attend by walking through the _snow_ before coming back and writing up your Philosophy assignment?_

_Me: __***groans* **__Please, for the love of God, _don't_ remind me...I HATE Philosophy...anyways, you boys oughta know the drill by now, you've been doing it for my HP story! Speaking of which, readers, here's the deal with my HP story: Yes, I am aware that it is so similar to the books it can be classified as a rip-off. Yes, I'm sure Jade sounds like a Mary-Sue to you. I'll tell you here and now that there is a huge twist at the end of this story that will change the events of all of the others in this series – you just need to be patient. And Jade is not a Mary-Sue. She seems like it now, being intelligent, smart, witty and good at sports, but she does and will have her flaws, which will be addressed as the series progresses. You all just need to be patient. Those people that decided it would be nice to annoy me and flame my story and those that are considering doing so, I hope this clears up any confusion or annoyance. And if you could refrain from insulting me in your reviews, I'd really appreciate it, kay? C'mon, boys, say bye-bye to the readers._

_Erik: __***smirks***__ Bye-bye to the readers._

_Me: __***rolls eyes***__ Points for maturity..._

_Snape: __***monotone* **__Reviews are not just welcome, they are encouraged..._

_Me: To quote Harley...Buh-byeeeeeeeeeeeee! __***grins maniacally, making Erik and Snape look at her like she's crazy***_

_***All three bow and drop a smoke bomb before vanishing in the thick white smoke***_


End file.
